


The Marquis and the Miss

by InkyCoffee



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Regency, Bowing, Bridgerton AU, F/M, Regency Romance, So many balls, fake dating Regency styles, mild identity shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29126979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkyCoffee/pseuds/InkyCoffee
Summary: “I have decided it is time for you to marry and produce an heir. I will give you until the end of the current season to select a suitable bride; if you do not choose one in that time, one will be selected for you. That is all.”Adrien blinked. It was only through many years of practice keeping himself in check that prevented him from giving a start.Marry?Marinette Dupain-Cheng, a gently bred Miss, hopes to secure a match with a gentleman; she not-so-secretly hopes she can marry for love. But when she meets the Marquis of Orwell, with his gentle green eyes and his frank, unassuming nature, she begins to wish she could reach above her station. For his part, the Marquis is falling deeper and deeper in love with his friend, Miss Dupain-Cheng, without his even knowing it - and in spite of already loving a mystery woman.The Bridgerton-inspired Regency AU no one knew they wanted.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe
Comments: 62
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fictionalinfinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalinfinity/gifts).



It would be after nightfall by the time he reached London. 

Adrien Agreste, the Marquis of Orwell and only son of the Duke of Ipswich, would have preferred to take his journey in easier stages, but when the Duke demanded an audience with his heir, Adrien knew better than to dally. It had been almost two years since his father had last summoned him to his presence, after all, and Gabriel Agreste was not a man who enjoyed being kept waiting. 

Adrien had dutifully mounted his horse a scant half hour after his father’s summons had arrived, leaving his faithful valet Plagg to pack his trunk and follow more sedately in the carriage. His gentleman’s gentleman would most likely arrive at Ipswich House in London midmorning tomorrow, after spending the night in one of the inns along the way; Adrien was long used to his valet’s particular ways, and Plagg always did prefer to be comfortable. The thought of a warm fire, a hearty meal, and a good mug of ale had Adrien longing for the chance to stop somewhere for the night, but he had little choice but to press on.    
  
A signpost at a crossroads had Adrien sighing with relief as it stated he had only five miles more to travel, even as another carriage bearing grand insignia came thundering by in the opposite direction. He caught sight in the dying twilight of a gentleman wearing a domino mask within the carriage and guessed someone was hosting a masquerade ball at their country estate just outside of town. That explained the mass exodus of the  _ ton _ then. It was the fourth such carriage he had seen.

The road was wide enough here for him to not need to slow down overmuch for passing carriages, so he continued his pace even as the road dipped down through some woods and around a bend, bringing him to a clearing in a rather startling fashion.    
  
More startling, however, was the carriage pulled up at the side of the road, and even as Adrien came around the corner, he observed one scoundrel pulling the driver down from his seat and dealing him a nasty blow, and another flinging himself upon the fresh-faced footman riding up behind, the pair quickly engaging in fisticuffs. A third man flung open the carriage door as Adrien drew his mount to a stop. 

Footpads, preying on innocents simply out to enjoy a party. 

Adrien couldn’t not stop and help, his father’s summons and sense of urgency be damned. 

“Give me all your jewels,” the footpad at the carriage door demanded. 

A feminine voice, sounding not at all scared, answered him in the negative, demanding to be released. The scoundrel reached in, his jerky movements and the subsequent shouts insinuating he had raised his hand to the lady who had objected, and after a further scuffle, he drew someone out with him, a young woman who was calling for her Mama in a panicked voice that suggested her Mama had been the victim of the scoundrel’s fists.    
  
“Your dear Mama won’t save you. I’ll have your pretty baubles for meself, and mayhap a bit of you while I’m at it. You’re a fresh one, and it’s been a while since I’ve had a woman. What do you say, boys, should I keep the chit for myself?” the footpad holding the girl snarled. 

  
Those vile words made Adrien’s blood boil, but a calculating coldness had overcome him, his anger an icy blast. He vowed to himself the scoundrels would not lay a finger on the lady, even if it meant his own death. 

Adrien slid from his saddle on the far side of the road and crept closer, his adrenaline pumping. They were all too preoccupied to hear Adrien’s approach as, finished with the driver and footman, the other two gathered around the young lady who looked more annoyed than frightened. Choosing the nearest scoundrel, the big one who had dealt to the driver, Adrien tapped the man on the shoulder to gain his attention, then as he turned, Adrien delivered him a powerful blow, sending him reeling. 

The young lady seemed to take that as her cue, whirling around and bringing her knee up to the groin of the man who held her with some force. Then, as he doubled over in pain, she brought her elbow down on the back of his head, causing him to stumble forward face first. His head glanced off a rock as he fell, and he let out a loud groan as he sank into unconsciousness.

  
The one Adrien had punched was the largest of the three, and though well stunned by Adrien’s surprise attack, did not go down as quickly as the Marquis would have hoped. Instead, he staggered to his feet, sending a lumbering blow in Adrien’s direction which he easily dodged.    
  
“You won’t hit me if you aim for where I  _ was _ ,” Adrien couldn’t help jibing, as it was clear his opponent wasn’t seeing straight and his own darting movements were further discombobulating the man. His words had the intended effect, however, as the man’s somewhat limited focus remained on Adrien and away from the girl.    
  
Behind the oaf, the young lady was now circling wearily with the slowly-advancing third man. In the dying twilight, Adrien caught the glint of a knife in the third man’s hand and a mean smile on his face. Determined to save her, Adrien darted in and engaged his own opponent in a swift series of blows, but the oaf, though big and slow, managed a punch to Adrien’s ribs that had him flying back and landing the dirt, winded. The oaf then turned and joined his wiry companion in advancing on the young lady.   
  
“Tikki? A little help?” she called in a tone that suggested she was trying to remain calm and not altogether succeeding, but even as Adrien sat up and shook himself off, he realised her call had not been to him, but to her maid.    
  
Staggering to his feet, he watched as someone within the carriage - her maid, most likely - reached behind her, then threw her mistress an item which the young lady deftly caught.   
  
Both her assailants seemed as puzzled as she as they all stared at the item.   


“A cushion?” she asked no one in particular. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

The wiry one, clearly not the fastest thinker in the land, nevertheless retrieved what wits he had, and began advancing upon her once more, now making playful jabs in her direction with the knife as his companion also closed in.    
  
“I’ll have those rubies at your ears!” he declared, his grin showing that most of his teeth were rotten or missing.    
  
She held the cushion before her as a shield, using it to catch the knife as his jabs became more intentional. The velvet covering did little to stop the knife as the blade was sharp, but it was short enough that it wasn’t able to penetrate the thick stuffing.    
  
Two jabs later and the stuffing came out with the knife through the slashed velvet, wrapped around the blade and caught on the hilt, leaving only the empty sleeve of velvet in her hand.

It was as good a moment as Adrien was going to get. He launched himself onto the back of the oaf, wrapping his arm firmly around his neck in a chokehold. The wiry one, not the brightest candle in the chandelier, was torn between removing the cushion stuffing around his knife and watching Adrien taking on his fellow conspirator.    
  
The oaf was not going down as easily as Adrien would have hoped, though his breathing was becoming more laboured.

In short, no one was paying attention to the young lady for a few scant seconds. And that was all she needed.    
  
Whirling, she covered the wiry man’s knife hand with the cushion cover so that it was caught completely. The knife sliced through the thick velvet at once, of course, but the hilt and the man’s had was wrapped and completely in her control. Swift as lightning, she darted to the side, forcing the man’s hand out before them both in a long-armed jab-- 

\--just as the giant oaf staggered forward.    
  
The knife lodged deeply in his shoulder.    
  
Giving out an almighty howl of pain, the oaf struck out at the wiry man, sending him flying back. He did not stand up again.   
  
The young lady wisely took several steps backwards. Adrien did not let up on the man’s throat, and gradually the oaf sank to his knees, still gasping, but slowly, slowly sinking into unconsciousness. 

A step sounded behind Adrien, and for a moment he feared the worst, then a fist struck out, hitting the oaf in the temple, and finally he sagged. Adrien released him, allowing him to fall in the dirt, and turned to find the driver, chest heaving, glaring at the assailant he had downed.    
  
“That all of them?” the groom asked, his eyes darting to his mistress and then back to him. 

“I believe so,” the young lady replied, then turned to the carriage, her eyes seeking out her maid. “Mama? How is she?”    
  
“Only stunned, Miss,” the maid replied soothingly. “Already coming around.”   
  
The groom helped Adrien to his feet, and then went to check on the young footman, slapping his face none too gently until the boy roused. Adrien joined them, pulling out a small flask of whiskey, taking a swig, then offering it to the two men, who each took a grateful sip. When it appeared all was well there, he came back to the young lady, who was standing at the carriage door, watching her maid tend her Mama.    
  
“Is there anything more I can do to be of assistance?” he asked with a courtly bow, and it was only as he straightened that he got his first real look at her. 

She was beautiful.    
  
What he could see of her, that is.

He saw shining dark hair and sparkling blue eyes looking out from behind the mask that had somehow stayed affixed throughout the whole ordeal. The mask was crimson, as was the gown she wore beneath her cloak, an unusually bold choice for a young lady of the  _ ton _ , and both were delicately embroidered with glossy black thread that somehow made the whole ensemble shine.

She was breathtaking.

She was also distracted by her mother’s condition. “Thank you so much for your assistance, sir. Once my groom and footman have collected themselves, I will have them bind these three, and we will return to London so that my mother might be cared for. I will ask my footman to go on to bow street and alert the authorities; there is no need to trouble yourself further on our account.”   
  
“Are you sure you would not like me to escort you?”   
  
She laughed a little at that. “You think we might be set upon by footpads twice in one night? I will have both my groom and footman prepare the pistols to be safe, but I assure you, there is no further need to worry. I do thank you, though, for your kindness, and for your help.”   
  
“You seemed to have the matter well in hand,” he replied ruefully.   
  
“I could not have done it without you. Your timing in distracting them was impeccable.”   
  
“I am pleased to have been a distraction,” he said with some irony in his tone, and she laughed.    
  
“I assure you, sir, your distractions were truly heroic.”

“Well, then, My Lady--” he began, but she raised her eyebrows behind her mask.   
  
“My Lady?” she repeated in some surprise. 

He gestured to her outfit, still beautiful but now muddy and slightly torn. “As a ladybug, surely it is most appropriate to call you My Lady. Unless you would give me your name?”   
  
She bit her lip, searching his face. “You will forgive me, I had best not. Though I trust your discretion, my mother would worry if there was even a hint of a scandal attached to my name.”

He nodded. The young lady was not only beautiful and a quick thinker, but also wise. “I understand.”    
  
“Thank you.” She was squinting at him, and now that he thought about it, the rim of his top hat most likely concealed his features from the feeble light of the moon.

Adrien saw that the groom and footman had collected themselves and had done as she had suggested. The three unconscious miscreants were bound and laid out side by side, out of harm’s way - it was possible, of course, that they might recover consciousness before the authorities could ride out, but there was no purpose in leaving someone to guard them. Her servants were checking the horses and readying the carriage for departure. The groom caught his eye and nodded with deep respect, climbing into the driver’s seat once more. The footman took his place by the door.

Adrien gestured to the carriage. “Allow me?” he asked, offering his hand. 

She smiled at him, placing her gloved hand in his. 

He longed to remove it, to touch those delicate, capable fingers. Before he released her completely, he bowed once more over her hand, touching his lips to her fingers.    
  
“My Lady,” he said once more.    
  
She paused on the step to stare at him, lips parting, cheeks flushed behind her mask. She moved her mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out, and after a humming minute, she found her seat in the carriage.    
  
Adrien stood back, allowing the footman to fold the step up and close the door before leaping up behind, and then they whirled away. 

It took Adrien a few minutes to find his own horse, who had gone searching for a nibble in the long grass, and though he rode hard the rest of the way to London to try to see where her carriage took her, by the time he entered the city, he had seen no trace of it. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was late by the time he arrived at his father’s house. He was shown immediately into the Duke’s office, where the Duke was hunched over some papers under the endless watch of Adrien’s mother’s portrait. 

He didn’t remember his mother; she had died giving birth to him, but his father had been truly devoted to her, and although a son and heir had been the Duke’s dearest wish, he had never truly forgiven Adrien for his birth causing his mother’s death. 

“Sir,” Adrien said to announce himself. 

Gabriel barely glanced up. “You’re filthy.”

Adrien coloured. He knew his father placed a great deal of importance on appearance. “Your summons sounded urgent; I did not stop for a bath after my journey.”

Gabriel’s lip curled in distaste, but instead of the lecture on appearance Adrien was expecting, the Duke said, “I have decided it is time for you to marry and produce an heir. I will give you until the end of the current season to select a suitable bride; if you do not choose one in that time, one will be selected for you. That is all.”

Adrien blinked. It was only through many years of practice keeping himself in check that prevented him from giving a start. 

Marry?

It had always been in the back of his mind, of course, that one day he would need a family of his own to continue the Agreste family bloodline, but somehow that day had always been in the distant future. His father held the reins of the family estate so tightly that it didn’t seem likely they would ever pass to Adrien, in spite of the Duke’s appearance being thinner and his skin more grey than last time they had been in the same room. If anything, his father had hitherto prevented him from forming an attachment, actively discouraging his son from attending the London season so that he may not be preyed upon by the ambitious mamas of the ton. 

His father’s own marriage had been a love match; everyone knew it. Adrien had always supposed that his father would allow his son the same happiness. 

Adrien should have known better, a voice whispered in his mind. 

Still, the season had scarcely begun. He had plenty of time to find a love match, surely. 

The vision rose up in Adrien’s mind’s eye of a young lady dressed in crimson fearlessly kneeing her assailant in the groin and then later thanking him with blue eyes sparkling behind her mask, and he felt himself smiling. 

“As you wish, Father,” Adrien said with a slight bow. 

“That is all,” the Duke said, and Adrien bowed once more and departed, dismissed. 

\---

Three nights later, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, only daughter of a gentleman and his wife, greeted her dearest friend Alya at a ball hosted by Lady Mendeleiev. It had been a trying few days, as her father had been unwilling to allow either herself or her Mama out of his sight after the attack on the way to the masquerade; thankfully there had not been so much as a whisper of a scandal as even the servants had been tight-lipped about the whole affair, especially when reminded that Miss Marinette’s very reputation was at stake. It was only when her mother tactfully pointed out that everyone now fully recovered and that behaving suddenly like recluses when they had a daughter of marriageable age would surely create more gossip than it would stem, that her father had relented. Papa might be head of the household, but he doted on his wife and daughter, and more often than not it was Mama who had her way. Thus after a few quiet evenings in, Marinette once again found herself in a ballroom, and though her mother watched on from nearby, it was a relief to be free of the constant fuss of her family for a few hours. 

“Is your mother quite recovered from her headache?” Alya greeted Marinette as their mamas fell into conversation a few feet away. “It seems unlike her to be ill for so long,” 

“Yes, quite. It was Papa who worried about her going out, or we would have been at the poetry reading last night.”

Alya grimaced. “You didn’t miss much. It was a stuffy affair from start to finish, entirely set up to make Chloe the showpiece - but a creaking sonnet about how her family diamonds not becoming her well enough and needing to be remade to suit her better? If your mother had not been ill, she may well have become so had she attended.” 

Marinette tried to stifle an unladylike giggle. “Alya, Chloe is just over there. She will hear you.” 

Alya simply scoffed. “The only performance worth listening to was by Mr. Couffaine, on the subject of how he appreciates the colour blue.” She gave her friend a knowing look. “It seems the baronette’s son has been pondering the colour more lately, as it reminds him of a lady’s eyes.”

Marinette blushed and glanced away. “Half the ladies of the ton have blue eyes.”

“But only one has been called on at her father’s house by the poet in question.”

“It is well known that Luka must marry well to get their family out of debt. I might have a modest dowry, but he needs to aim higher than my four thousand pounds if he wants to undo the damage his father has done. And there’s Juleka’s dowry to think of, too.”

Alya gave her a shrewd look. “You don’t care about his finances, Marinette. I know you. And neither does he care about his father’s debts; he’s not chasing the heiresses. He likes you. And you don’t seem to dislike him.”

Marinette sighed. “No. I don’t dislike him. I like him very much. And I am not so green as to think love is the only reason to wed; being the wife of a future Baron would be respectable, and Mr. Couffaine would be a kind and attentive husband.”

“But you don’t love him.”

“No. I could if I tried, but I do not now.”

Alya glanced across the room, opening her mouth to give one of her scorching criticisms or sound nuggets of advice - Marinette could never predict which would fly first from her friend’s mouth, and honestly that was part of the fun of being friends with someone as outspoken as Alya - when her friend suddenly straightened, her face morphing into what could only be described as a dazzling smile. 

Marinette followed her friend’s gaze. A gentleman stood across the room, tall and angular, with curly brown hair and warm brown eyes that were shyly looking in their direction. “Who is that?” she whispered to her friend, but before Alya could answer, they were joined by their Mamas.

“Look lively, girls. Viscount Lahiffe is looking this way,” said Mrs. Cesaire. 

“I didn’t know he was out of mourning for his brother,” Sabine observed. “They say no one expected him to inherit, least of all the gentleman in question. He is of a quieter disposition than his departed brother.” .

“So long as he keeps himself from dueling as his brother did, he should have some long and happy years in the title,” Mrs. Cesaire replied even as the Viscount approached them and made his bows. 

Sabine led the charge, beginning to speak almost before she had finished her curtsy. “Viscount Lahiffe, it is so good to see you out in society once more. I was so sorry to hear about your brother. How does your mother?”

The gentleman swallowed nervously, and though his smile was sad, Marinette suspected he was thankful the lead of the conversation had been taken from him, at least for a moment. “She is doing as well as can be expected, under the circumstances.”

“Do pass on our condolences to her,” Mrs. Cesaire contributed. “She is an admirable lady, and it must have been a shock to lose her eldest son so soon after the death of her husband.”

Marinette saw more sorrow flash through his eyes, but he painted on a gallant smile. “My mother is a wonderful lady. I will be happy to pass on your greetings Mrs. Dupain-Cheng and…?”

“Mrs. Cesaire. You will forgive me, my Lord. I have made your mother’s acquaintance on several occasions and even dined with her when I was staying in the country at one time, but I believe you were at Cambridge then. This is my daughter, Alya.”

Sabine, not to be out done, also spoke up. “And this is my daughter, Marinette.”

He bowed again, and the two girls curtsied. “It is a pleasure to meet you both.”

“And tell me, my Lord, are you dancing tonight? Or are you still in mourning? ‘Twould be a pity if you were, as the music is so enchanting and there are so many lovely young ladies in attendance, but no one would take it amiss if you did not yet feel able,” Alya’s mother hinted. 

Marinette had been silently laughing at how taken Alya clearly was with the newcomer that she was almost startled to find his eyes on herself and not her friend. 

“I am planning to dance, if Miss Dupain-Cheng would so grace me with her hand for the next two dances?”

She felt Alya stiffen just a little beside her, and, sending a silent apology to her mama who had probably already mentally married her off to the Viscount, did what any true friend would do. Besides, she was to speak nothing but the truth. “I’m afraid I’m already promised for the next two dances, my Lord. But Miss Cesaire--” she glanced at Alya, whose beaming smile had returned in full. 

“Of course. Miss Cesaire, if I might have the pleasure,” he said in his quiet way, and, offering his arm, led Alya out onto the floor. 

Marinette braced herself for her mother’s reaction. 

“Marinette, what was that about?” Sabine demanded the moment he was out of earshot. Mrs. Cesaire excused herself - it was unbecoming to gloat, after all, and she could chaperone her daughter just as easily while conversing with Lady Lavillant. 

Marinette raised innocent blue eyes to her mother. “I am promised for these dances to Mr. Kurtzberg. Look, he comes this way now.”

Sabine did not look impressed. “Mr. Kurtzberg has already asked for your hand, and you have refused him. Yet you’re choosing to dance with him over a Viscount?”

Marinette glanced over to where Alya’s sparkling laughter was already drawing the Viscount out of his shyness and into conversation. “No, Mama. I’m choosing to make my dearest friend very happy.”

Sabine sighed. “It is your happiness that concerns me, dearest.” 

Marinette smiled. “Fret not, mother. I am not yet on the shelf.”

Then Mr. Kurtzberg was making his bows and leading her out, and she concentrated on enjoying the dance. Nathaniel was a dear boy, and had proposed to her earlier in the season, but she had known instinctively that while he was a wonderful person, he was not the man for her, nor she the woman for him. She had turned him down politely, but they remained friends and often danced at balls, spending their conversations joking about who they could introduce each other to, as well as poking fun at some of the more ridiculous fashions. 

Like Lady Chloe Bourgeois, the Earl’s daughter, who this evening wore a dress of primrose yellow with elaborate lace, and who stood, bored, on the side of the ballroom. Everyone knew Lady Chloe did not accept invitations to dance from anyone whose title and fortune did not at least match, if not exceed, her father’s - and there were few gentlemen who fit her exacting criteria. 

It was easy for Marinette to talk to Nathaniel now that he wasn’t trying to romance her, and when the dance was over, they paused in conversation at the side of the ballroom. They paid little heed to their surroundings until Chloe, standing nearby, gasped and stood up straight before gliding forward with a beaming smile to greet a latecomer. Marinette had her back to the entranceway and hadn’t even seen who had come in, only heard Chloe’s cry of “Adrien!” and felt herself actually shoved out of the way by the eager Lady Chloe. 

Nathaniel steadied her, and they both glared at the pair. 

The gentleman greeted her with “Hello, Chloe,” and a kiss on her outstretched hand. 

“I’m so thankful you’re here, Adrikins,” she simpered up at him. “These balls have become positively common,” she added with a glare at Marinette. 

So the shove had not been accidental. Marinette glared steadily back. 

“If I dance with you, will that improve your mood?” the gentleman asked. Something about his voice felt familiar to Marinette, but she couldn’t place it.

“Yes, of course,” Chloe agreed at once, and the pair turned the dancefloor. This time it was the gentleman who bumped Marinette, this time much more gently and, had it not been for Chloe’s behaviour, Marinette would have assumed this time to be an honest accident. The timing, though, was, suspicious, especially as he had barely turned to apologise when Chloe called to him to hurry. 

“Let me return you to your mother,” Mr. Kurtzberg said in his quiet way, and, having done so, made his bows and departed. 

Alya and the Viscount returned then, having taken the long way back from the dance floor via the lemonade table, and still deep in conversation, and it was only when Sabine said “And how did you enjoy your dance, Alya?” that either of them glanced up, and both looked around as if coming out of a daze. 

“I-- very well, thank you, Mrs. Dupain-Cheng,” Alya stuttered, while the Viscount stood silently blushing at her side. He glanced around as if he didn’t know whether or not to make his escape, then his eyes focused on the dance floor and his face broke into a grin, and he waved merrily across the room. 

The gentleman dancing with Chloe, the one who had bumped her, waved back, an equally-delighted grin on his face.

“Here’s someone you will like, Miss Cesaire,” Viscount Lahiffe confided, even as the current dance ended and the gentleman extracted himself from Chloe and came hurrying over.

“Nino!” the gentleman said, giving Nino a hearty handshake. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”

“Adrien! What the devil are you doing in town? It’s good to see you, old chap!” Nino responded equally gleefully, then turned to Alya, and, at the last moment, remembered his manners and included Sabine and Marinette. “Miss Cesaire, Mrs. and Miss Dupain-Cheng, may I introduce one of my dearest friends, Adrien Agreste, the Marquis of Orwell. Adrien and I came up through Eton and Cambridge together.”

“Like Marinette and me,” Alya replied with a swift smile at her best friend, but her attention was still on the Viscount, and Marinette exchanged an amused glance with her mother. However, as Alya and both their mothers made their bows to the Marquis, Marinette merely inclined her head, barely bobbing a curtsey. It was a snub, indicating that in spite of his elevated rank she did not wish to make his acquaintance, though the move was, as far as she could tell, only noticed by her own mother, who frowned. Marinette predicted a lecture on 'being rude to eligible men of rank' during their carriage ride home.

“I’m in town for the whole season, at my father’s behest.” The Marquis beamed. “We shall have to catch up properly, of course.”

“Your father…?” the Viscount began, frowning, and then seemed to remember he was in mixed company. “Yes, of course, whenever you like, old chap.”

The Marquis glanced between his friend and Alya. “But this is neither the time nor the place, not with such lovely ladies to attend to.”

The Viscount laughed and blushed again. “I shall speak to you shortly, old chap. But first - Miss Cesaire, I should really return you to your own mother, but before I do - how would you feel about taking a turn about the room?”

“I would like it very well,” Alya said demurely, peeking up at the Viscount from beneath her lashes. He offered her his arm, and they sauntered away. 

Meanwhile, the Marquis turned to Marinette. “Miss Dupain-Cheng, I believe I bumped into you earlier this evening. Please allow me to express again, and properly this time, my sincere apologies for my clumsiness. I felt terrible for knocking into you, and like a cad for not immediately stopping to ascertain your health.” He spoke a little formally, but there was sincerity in his eyes that Marinette could not miss. 

Then, in a burst of candor, he confided, “You see, it’s been so long since I attended a ball, or any crowded gathering. My father has always preferred I stay away until now. So I suppose I am out of practice when it comes to meeting new people or navigating crowded ballrooms. Do say you will forgive me?” he added beseechingly, his green eyes looking down at her with such a hopeful expression, and in that moment, Marinette knew she was lost. 

“Y-yes, of c-course forgive you I,” she stammered, then turned deep red as she processed her own lack of coherency. 

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You are far too kind, Miss Dupain-Cheng. I look forward to meeting you again,” he said with a friendly grin, made his bows, and strode away. Marinette watched him until he was swallowed by the crowd. 

“Marinette, dearest?” her mother asked, but her mother’s voice sounded miles away as her heart leaped and soared. 

“Hmmm…?” she finally turned her head to acknowledge her Mama, trying to ignore her flushed cheeks and pounding heart and the hand that wouldn’t stop tingling where he had kissed her glove. 

“I’m no longer worried about you ending up on that shelf,” Sabine said with a small smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	3. Chapter 3

The Cessaire and Dupain-Cheng households were both located at opposite ends of the same square, so visits between the two girls was an almost daily occurrence. The day after the ball, however, Alya didn’t stop by until after luncheon. She didn’t speak until Trixx, her maid, left for the servants’ hall - visits were common enough that Trixx was a friend of all the Dupain-Cheng staff, just as Tikki was as well known at the Cesaire’s. As soon as the door closed, however, Alya burst into speech. 

“The Viscount called on me this morning, and he stayed for over half an hour!”

Marinette squealed at her friend’s happiness. “You must tell me all about it. And all about last night, too!”   
  


“Oh, Marinette, my heart nearly stopped when he asked you to dance. I think I fell in love with him the moment I saw him looking in our direction across the ballroom. If you had set your cap at him, I would have been happy for you both, of course, but I’m not sure I wouldn’t have resented it - resented you. And then he asked me, and honestly, once we started talking, it was just like we had known each other forever.”

“And of course his being a Viscount doesn’t hurt either,” Marinette said slyly.

Alya laughed, too happy to take offense. “Mama is thrilled. Papa says Viscount or nay, he still must prove he is worthy of my hand or some such nonsense. Honestly, though, even if he were in the poor house, I would be tempted. Perhaps a little less inclined to pursue him - my dowry is only two thousand pounds, after all, and one must live on something, but - Marinette, it’s not about the money or the title for me. He is the most gracious and complete gentleman I have ever met. He is intelligent and kind and witty and handsome and patient. In truth, I could not ask for a better match, even if I were to meet a prince. And he’s interested in me. I can scarcely believe it!”

“And he called on you this morning?”    
  
“Oh yes, he was very prompt and proper about it too. He was exquisitely charming to Mama, and brought her a bouquet as well as one for me. Oh, and did I tell you…” Alya chattered on, and Marinette couldn’t help but smile as she watched her friend’s excited face. It wasn’t difficult to be happy in the face of such joy, and she did her best to suppress her own yearning for the same happiness.

Unbidden, her thoughts turned, as they had with more frequency than she should have allowed since the previous evening, to the Marquis of Orwell. 

To Adrien. 

Because she wasn’t interested in him just because he was a Marquis, just as she knew Alya wasn’t interested in the Viscount Lahiffe because of his title. It was the man who had haunted her dreams last night, the easy manners and confiding smile, and those green, green eyes that had been so joyous and so desperately lonely as they begged her for forgiveness. She could think of no other gentleman who would admit so freely to being out of place in a ballroom; if anything, she had observed that most gentlemen pretended to be more cocky when they were ill at ease, as if to admit otherwise were a weakness. 

Something about that interaction had shaken Marinette to her core, but it was not an unpleasant shaking. No other man had engaged her heart the way Adrien had. 

And he was a Marquis, the son and heir of a Duke. 

Marinette came from a respectable family. Her father was a gentleman, and her family had moved in the first circles for some generations, but there was no purpose in hoping for a match unless Adrien, too, had felt the same - and his manners had offered no shyness, no flirtation, just an endearing and disarming frankness, and his honesty and sincerity had charmed her more than Mr. Kurtzberg’s quiet propriety or Mr. Couffaine’s flowery sonnets. 

She had never fancied herself in love before. Oh, she had hoped for it, as her parents so obviously loved one another, but she knew them to be the exception rather than the rule. Few members of the  _ ton _ married for anything beyond convenience or appearance; men wanted to sire heirs and align themselves with other powerful families; women wanted the comfort and security and social power a good alliance could bring. And most members of the  _ ton _ were satisfied with this arrangement. 

So to find herself in love with a man she had hardly met, a man who was socially her superior - it was more than she could have dreamed for herself. 

Except for the one tiny detail that she was not secure in his interest, nor, to her knowledge, did he return her affection. 

The man was going to be a Duke one day. No one would raise an eyebrow if he chose to marry  _ royalty _ . It was more likely for him to do so, in fact, then it was for him to choose her, a mere gentleman’s daughter, even if her family did move in the first circles. She knew well she had no title to tempt a man - her father’s estate was to be entailed away to a cousin - and though her dowry was respectable, it was not excessive. She was fortunate to be an only daughter in that her parents had no sisters to also provide dowries for - Alya’s family, for instance, were wealthier than her own, but there were four sisters to marry off, and Nora’s dowry had been increased twice, cutting into Alya’s portion, before a gentleman of some years had asked for her hand as he merely felt he should marry, and Nora had accepted as she wanted her independence; as far as Marinette knew, the pair lived as all but strangers to one another, and both were content with the arrangement. 

It wasn’t the kind of marriage Marinette felt she would be happy with, but it was not uncommon.    
  
  
If Alya landed a Viscount, now, that would help her twin sisters considerably when they were old enough to make their debut. Many men who would otherwise disparage a dowry of a mere two thousand pounds would leap at the chance to be the brother-in-law of a Viscount. 

In short, while Alya’s potential alliance to the Viscount was to be celebrated, Marinette was infinitely less certain of her own chances. The social chasm between herself and the Marquis was by no means insurmountable, but the Marquis would have to want to cross it. And there were many other young ladies of the  _ ton _ who would also encourage him in their direction, some with less to their name than she, granted, but many with more.    
  
  
Chloe, for instance. She was obviously interested in him, and the daughter of an Earl was a much shorter step down for him than merely the daughter of a gentleman. And Chloe was the kind of person who generally made sure she got what she wanted. 

“You’re listening, but you’re not really here,” Alya stated, all but cutting off her prattle to do so. 

Marinette smiled sheepishly. “I am so happy for you, Alya--” she began, but Alya waved that away, staring long and hard in a manner that, if Marinette had not been used to it, she would have found disconcerting. 

“You’re thinking about something specific. Tell me?”    
  
  
Marinette hesitated. “Did- did the Viscount say anything about the Marquis? A-about what he might have thought about me?”   
  
  
Alya narrowed her eyes at her friend. “Later on in the evening, as I was bidding them both farewell, he asked me to pass on my compliments to my ‘dear sweet little mouse of a friend’. Is that what you mean?”

“Mouse? Oh dear. I suppose I do feel like a mouse around him.” Marinette slumped.

“Only because he does not yet know you. Why does it matter?” Alya chided, though her eyes were dancing. 

Marinette hesitated again, took a deep breath, and then recounted her experience at the ball last night - Chloe’s shove, Adrien’s bump, and then, later, his apology. 

Alya listened with a knowing look in her eye. “Just think how grand it would be if I married the Viscount and you married the Marquis!” she exclaimed at the end, and Marinette blushed.    
  
“Even if you do marry Viscount Lahiffe, I doubt the Marquis would care to marry me,” she disclaimed. 

Alya shrugged in a most unladylike manner. “That’s simple, then. We make him care,” she said, standing. 

“What are you going to do?” Marinette asked wearily.    
  
“Right now? Return home so that Mama and I can promenade in the park this afternoon. She’s hoping the Viscount will also feel like taking a turn in the great outdoors. If you and your Mama are free you would be welcome to join us.”

Marinette grinned. “I’ll ask her.” 

It would, after all, be a lot less obvious to the Viscount, if he happened to be there, that Alya was going for the express purpose of ‘accidentally’ bumping into him if Alya was there with her friend.

And Marinette did not deny her own secret hope that the Viscount would bring his friend along for the same purpose. 

Half an hour later found them at the park, the two girls strolling ahead of their Mamas, but they had not ventured more than a few paces when the Viscount materialised in front of them, his expression open and eager as he made his bows. 

  
“Miss Cesaire, I am so pleased to see you again! Miss Dupain-Cheng, delighted. Mrs. Cesaire, Mrs. Dupain-Cheng,” he added respectfully as their mothers joined them. 

“Lord Lahiffe, what a delight to see you so soon,” Mrs. Cessaire all but purred, pleased to see her daughter’s noble suitor was not being standoffish. Marinette could have read her friend’s mother’s mind perfectly: if the Viscount was truly interested in courting Alya, Mrs. Cesaire would like to see the matter settled before either party could change their minds.

“...And of course you remember my dear friend, the Marquis of Orwell,” Lord Lahiffe was saying, and Marinette cursed herself for flushing as she turned. 

And there he was, tall and striking, his golden hair fashionably tousled, the deep green of his coat highlighting the shape of his shoulders and bringing out the green of his eyes, his cravat intricately knotted, and his face lit by a jovial smile as he made his bows.

She almost stumbled as she returned it, feeling suddenly tongue tied and foolish. 

The Viscount looked around as if the thought were just occurring to him. “I say, are you promenading? Would you be terribly offended, Miss Dupain-Cheng, if I was to steal your friend for a turn - if that is well with you, of course, Mrs. Cesaire?” he added deferentially to Alya’s Mama, who tittered. 

“Not at all, good Sir.”

“Excellent. Shall we, then?” he asked Alya, offering his arm. Alya smiled at him coyly. 

“I would be honoured, my Lord - but I fear it would be rude of me to leave my friend in the lurch.”

Alya’s words were innocent, but the mischievous glance she darted toward the Marquis was anything but. As if Marinette’s own Mama was not marriage-minded enough, Marinette wasn’t sure she would survive her friend also matchmaking on her behalf. Yet her hint was immediately effective as the Marquis stepped forth, eager to please.

“If Miss Dupain-Cheng would do me the honour of allowing me to be her escort,” he said, “Miss Cesaire’s mind would, I hope, be set at ease at once.” 

Alya inclined her head graciously. “My Lord, you are too kind. In that case, Lord Lahiffe, it would be my pleasure to promenade with you,” she added, taking his arm and turning to the path.    
  
Marinette heard the Viscount say to her friend as they turned, “Miss Cesaire, you need not be so formal. Please call me Nino…” and grinned to herself. 

Then the Marquis offered her his arm, and all else fell away. “Miss Dupain-Cheng, please allow me.” 

She nodded faintly, not trusting her voice, and completely missed the way her Mama and Alya’s exchanged a conspiratorial victory grin. She knew she was blushing, her tongue felt too large and unwieldy for her mouth, and her feet weren’t quite sure how to move properly. Her hand, tucked in the Marquis’ elbow, positively burned. 

“It was good of you to allow my friend to cut into your conversation with Miss Cesaire,” he said as they set off. 

Marinette found herself blushing more deeply, but she could talk about Alya - especially if she kept her eyes from the Marquis. Or at least, she hoped she could. 

“I’m n-not sure Alya would have f-forgiven me if I had demurred,” she replied shyly, then added, “N-nor would her Mama.”

He laughed at that. “I have been led to believe that the Mamas of the  _ ton _ with eligible daughters are by far the most fearsome creatures, to be avoided at all cost lest one find oneself shackled.”

Marinette giggled. “I w-wish I could tell you you were misinformed, but alas,” she replied. “I n-need not warn you that Alya’s Mama has designs on your f-friend.”

Adrien’s smile was warm. “I need not warn you that I suspect my friend shares those designs. I have never seen Nino so taken with a woman, and he has been my closest companion since we were at Eton.”

“A-Alya and I have been friends since childhood. The Viscount is the first time I have truly seen her head turned by any m-man,” Marinette said, forcing herself to speak without stuttering too much. “I hope that if they do make a match of it, that they will be very happy together. The Viscount seems like exactly the sort of steadying influence Alya n-needs.”

At her side, the Marquis heaved what could only be called a dramatic sigh. “Oh, that Fortune would favour me thus,” he said, but she heard the sincerity beneath his jovial tone, and peeked up at him. 

“Forgive me, my Lord, for speaking plainly,” she began hesitantly, but he leapt in. 

“I wish you would,” he said. “After all, if your dearest friend and mine make a match, Miss Dupain-Cheng, you and I are bound to see more of one another, and I should very much like to be your friend.”

She sighed a little. Friend. Not the words of a gentleman contemplating a courtship. But she could not allow any of that to show on her face, and she smiled perhaps a little too brightly. “You are very kind. I only wanted to inquire - forgive me, my Lord, but I had heard your father the Duke did not wish you to form an attachment? That is certainly the reason the gossip of the  _ ton _ gives for your absence from London in seasons past.”

His smile was somewhat rueful. “That was, indeed, the reason in the past. And if I may be frank, I was not sorry for the excuse. However, my father has intimated a change of heart on the subject, and so I find myself in town for the whole season.”

“I am very pleased to hear it,” she said quietly. 

“I’m not sure if I am or not, but my father has at least given me a season’s grace,” he said, his brow furrowed. She found herself longing to smooth the lines away.

“A season’s grace, my Lord? I don’t understand.”

Rather than lifting, his frown deepened. “I have until the season’s end to choose a bride, or my father will select one on my behalf. Most likely someone entirely appropriate and not at all suited to my temperament, like Chloe, who I think of as a sister. But she is the daughter of an Earl, so…”

Marinette found herself swallowing to soothe her suddenly dry throat. “Who would you choose for yourself, my Lord?” she asked timidly. 

His face relaxed into a dreamy smile then, his eyes focusing on an image that Marinette could not see. “A lady who knows her own mind, who doesn’t go into hysterics, but rather one who deals with the situation at hand, even if that situation requires an unusual solution. One who is witty and clever and kind and brave. And a beauty, of course.”

Marinette’s heart plummeted at his words. “I do not envy you your search. I know of no such paragon of virtue in the  _ ton _ .”

He glanced down at her, his mouth set in a determined line. “She’s out there somewhere. I only met her once, and then it was fleeting, but I know she exists. I just need to find her.”

It was all Marinette could do to smile even as she felt her heart break at his words. So he loved another. She should have known. “If she is half the lady you describe, my Lord, I hope you are able to find her.”

He smiled down at her. “Thank you. But enough about me. How goes your season? How many gentlemen have offered for you thus far?”

She laughed. “Two, so far. One I turned down because he was on the shady side of sixty, and the other was a dear boy who was very proper and whom I would have made miserable within a year. We are much better as friends than we ever would have been as man and wife.”

“I’m surprised there aren’t scores of men lining up for you,” he said, and from him it sounded sincere and not mere flattery. 

“Thank you,” she said, “I’m not sure I would want scores of men lining up. I’m afraid I’m too soft-hearted to wish to hurt them, and as I could only choose one in the end, I fear the rest must be heartbroken eventually.”

He nodded eagerly. “That is how I have always felt. I do not wish for scores of admirers, just the right one. What I do not know, however, is how to find that one without accidentally happening upon the scores.”

She laughed at that. “Your title alone places those scores on your scent, my Lord. There are many Mamas of the  _ ton _ who would love to refer to their daughter one day as ‘Her Grace’.”

His grimace was expressive, and they both laughed. “Is it your aim then, Miss Dupain-Cheng, to terrify me thus? I shall be too scared of the hordes to show my face, and I was so looking forward to Lady Bustier’s soiree tomorrow evening.”

“It is to be one of the highlights of the season. ‘Twould be a pity for you to miss it,” she replied as sadly as she was able with the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

“Wretch,” he said, his own eyes dancing. “I see you take no pity on me.”

“It is a difficult situation,” she conceded. “Either you attend the parties of the  _ ton _ and have a chance to meet the girl of your dreams and a life of matrimonial bliss, but be forced to brave the brazen Mamas of those hoping to catch the son of a Duke, or you remain home and safe away from them all and marry your father’s choice for your bride.”

“Are you attending the soiree, Miss Dupain-Cheng?” 

“But of course! I am not in the same position as you. If anything, my Mama is one of the vultures planning to circle you, after all,” she laughed. “My mother is the dearest lady but she is determined to find me an advantageous match. Advantageous in terms of my happiness, that is, not just in terms of titles or riches.”

“She sounds like a fine lady.”

“She is.”

“How about this, then. What if I begged your protection at the upcoming party? If I am clearly taken with one lady, surely it would be at least the smallest barrier between myself and the hordes, and you could help me find the paragon of virtue, as you called her. And surely it wouldn’t hurt your chances to be seen to be courted by a Marquis? Then together we can ensure that your friend and mine have the space required for their flirtation to become an attachment. What say you?” he asked, his green, green eyes looking down into hers. 

It was a terrible idea, one that could only lead to her own heartbreak and misery. But she could not deny those beseeching green eyes. He might not wish for her as his bride, but she could at least be his friend, and help him choose someone worthy of him. 

“It would be my honour, my Lord,” she said. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	4. Chapter 4

And so it was that Marinette surprised all of the  _ ton _ by being courted by the catch of the season, the Marquis of Orwell. 

They danced together twice at Lady Bustier’s soiree, and spent almost half an hour engaged in conversation with the Viscount and Miss Cesaire, who were also noticeably found together more than they were apart (but always quite properly with her Mama nearby). Then at Lady Lavillant’s musicale evening, the Marquis sat with her in the very front row, and though the quality of the music was not always first rate, the pair were noted to be amongst the most enthusiastic applauders. 

At Mrs. Le Chien’s rout, they once again danced twice and were seen engaged in conversation on and off throughout the evening, this time less in the presence of the Viscount and Miss Cesaire, who were beginning to show a very marked preference for one another’s company indeed. And the whole group of them, the Viscount, Miss Dupain-Cheng and Miss Cesaire and their respective Mamas, all joined the Marquis in his private box at the Opera a few evenings later.

Yet the Marquis was never seen making a morning call in the Dupain-Cheng household. Several other gentlemen did, for if the young lady was good enough for the future Duke of Ipswich she surely must be worth a second glance. It was enough to puzzle those paying close attention, Marinette’s own parents in particular, but he was so attentive at social gatherings that they did not lose hope just yet. 

\---

  
“What about that one?” the Marquis asked Marinette as they danced together at Mrs. Chamack’s ball. 

Marinette waited a few beats so that the movement of the dance could bring her around to face the direction he had indicated. “Mr. Kante? I do not believe he is currently in the market for a wife. I’m not even sure that he has ever been seen to speak to a lady, he is so shy.”

“That might suit you well, though,” Adrien said thoughtfully. He had not yet given her leave to use his given name, but she could not help privately thinking of him thus, especially in these moments they spent together. His green eyes were alight with laughter as he spun her around again. “You are such a timid mouse, I fear a lion would devour you.”

Marinette blushed again. Never before would she have described herself as timid or a mouse, but she was so overcome every time she met the Marquis it took some time at every meeting for her tongue to detangle itself, especially when they were in the company of others. Yet when she was just with him, conversation somehow flowed naturally in spite of her stutters, and he was endlessly patient with her.

“Am I so very mouseish?” she asked him, and his gaze, which had been traversing the room again to find another bachelor to suggest to her, snapped back to meet hers in surprise. 

“I-- are you not?” he asked as if bewildered, his eyes lingering on hers in a way that made her feel warm all over.

“I like to think I am not so very weak,” she said, lowering her gaze from his. She could not allow herself to be lost in him when he so very clearly was not interested in her. And that thought stung, so she changed the subject, going back to their game. “What about her?”

“Who?” he asked as they spun again, trying not to let his stare become obvious. 

“Miss Raincomprix,” Marinette said, indicating to the shy figure hovering near Chloe. 

He frowned. “I mean no disrespect, of course, but…”

“Lady Chloe Bourgeois would never allow it?” Marinette suggested wickedly.

The Marquis gave a small start, a laugh choking in his throat, his gaze snapping back to meet hers once more. “Perhaps you are right,” he murmured. 

“That Chloe wouldn’t like it? I know I am,” she replied with what could only be described as a wicked grin. 

He shook his head, and somehow his gaze softened as he looked down at her. “You are not so very mouseish.”

She was tongue tied once again, and silence settled between them for a moment. 

“What about her for me?” he asked, indicating as they turned. 

“Signorina Rossi?” Marinette asked blankly, trying not to let her disapproval show too plainly. 

“She’s all the rage this season, is she not?” he asked, clearly trying to gauge her reaction. 

Marinette chose her words carefully. “There are many who consider Signorina Lila to be a great beauty.” 

“But you do not agree?” he pressed. 

“It is not her looks that cause me to hesitate,” she replied. “I have seen her cause trouble for other young ladies by perpetuating rumours that may or may not be true.” She took a deep breath, as this next was not easy to admit to the man she admired, but she had his complete attention. “Almost before the season started, she spread one such rumour about me. It was disproved, thankfully, and my reputation was not tarnished. Perhaps I am overreacting as even Alya does not fully share my distrust of her, but if it were my choice, I would not see you with a lady such as she, even if I have no further proof to offer you than my word.”   
  
She met his eyes bravely once more.    
  
“Your word is enough,” he said simply, his gaze once again warm and soft, and she almost did not hear the dance coming to an end.   
  
“Thank you, my Lord,” she said softly as he led her from the floor   
  
“Miss Dupain-Cheng, I hold your opinion in the highest esteem. If you say I am to be cautious, I shall be.”

She nodded. “In that case, I should further caution you about Signorina Lila…” she began, hesitating to make sure they could not be overheard.

He ducked his head a little closer to hers. “It cannot be worse, surely.”

“Oh, but it is. You ought to be aware that the lovely Signorina has perfected the art of the timely swoon. Do not be surprised if you find yourself forced to dash to catch her, it is one of her best tricks,” Marinette said, suppressing her laughter.

He tried for equal gravity, but she could see he was aching to laugh out with her. “I shall be on my toes,” he assured her. 

He returned her to her Mama and went off to lead Miss Lavillant out - he was a social butterfly in his own way, often dancing with several young ladies in any given evening, but singling Marinette out as being the only he would dance with twice, and rarely stopping to engage any of the others in conversation in quite the same way. 

Marinette watched them for a long moment. Rose was a sweet girl, not bright enough to be a temptation to one such as Adrien, even if she was a beauty. And it did not harm Rose’s chances to be led out by the catch of the season. Marinette held no malice against the pair. And Adrien certainly cut a fine figure. 

Catching her mother’s knowing gaze, she blushed once more. “Mama…” she all but whined. 

Sabine merely raised her eyebrows, but her eyes were sparkling with humour. “I didn’t say a word, dearest.”

Marinette huffed in a most unladylike way, but she knew her mother would take it in jest. “I might make use of the ladies’ retiring room,” she said delicately. 

“Do you need me to come?” her mother asked instantly. 

Marinette shook her head. “No, I shan’t be long.”

“Very well.”

It was a relief to step out of the crowded ballroom and into the relative quiet of the hall. She slipped into the retiring room, pleased to find she had the space to herself for a moment, and went about completing her business. She was taking her time ensuring her hair was sitting as she desired it, just about ready to leave, when the door swung open and the Signorina sailed in. 

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Dupain-Cheng! How goes the Marquis hunt?” Signorina Lila tittered in her Italian accent. She had come to London from the Continent for the season, and was under the protection of an Aunt who had married an English Barron, according to gossip, and had taken the season by storm - in part because it was rumoured she was an heiress, although no one knew the exact proportion of her dowry. 

“Signorina Rossi, how delightful,” Marinette managed through gritted teeth. She would not allow a single word to be used against her, as she knew the Signorina was well capable. 

“It does seem shameless the way some young ladies throw themselves at anyone with a title,” Lila observed. “But I suppose you think the Marquis is actually interested in you?”

“His title is of no interest to me,” Marinette replied steadily, preparing to depart. 

“Oh, come now, that cannot be true. No one would deny it adds a sweetness to his already sweet disposition. On that count I suppose I can’t blame you for setting your cap at him. Why, I find myself halfway in love with the man already,” Lila tittered. 

Marinette looked at her. “Have you ever had a conversation with his Lordship?” she asked curiously, as Adrien’s comments had suggested the two had yet to be presented. 

“Oh, la, one does not need to converse with a man such as he in order to fall in love with him. Not when one is reminded that he is the heir to the Duke of Ipswich. Why, I find my heart fluttering with desperate passion even now. Did you suppose I could not love such a man?” Lila’s eyes narrowed. “Do not think, Miss Dupain-Cheng, that you have any kind of claim on him. A friendship or a dalliance he might well consider, but he would not think of matrimony with one such as you.”

Marinette held her head up high. “I will conduct myself as I always have done, and that is with complete propriety and with the best interests of my heart, and my heart alone, as my priority. Good evening, Signorina Rossi,” she said with a mocking curtsey, and returned to the ballroom, leaving Lila scowling in her wake. 

“Are you well, dearest?” her mother said with concern as Marinette returned to her side.”You seem flushed.” 

Marinette smiled weakly. “I am quite well, thank you, Mama. It is only so very warm in here.”

Sabine nodded. “Perhaps we could prevail upon the Marquis, once he has returned Miss Lavillant to her dear Mama, to escort you to the refreshment table for some lemonade,” she suggested too innocently, applauding politely as the dance finished and couples moved away from the floor, and then proceeded to make good on her threat by catching the eye of the Marquis and signalling him over.    
  
He nodded at once most agreeably, and Marinette’s cheeks burned as he paused only to deposit Miss Lavillant with her mother and make his bows, before turning to make his way over to them…

...when his way was prevented by Signorina Lila Rossi crying out, “Oh, but I cannot breathe!” and swooning perfectly into his arms in such a way as he had no choice but to catch her.

  
  


\---

  
  


Adrien had enjoyed his dance with Miss Lavillant. Rose was a sweet, delightful girl, though her conversation did not require any depth of thought beyond the fashions currently on display throughout the room. She herself was bedecked in pale pink, and it became her well, but Adrien could not stop his mind from wandering. 

He had been to every society gathering he could in the past weeks, and still he had not found the dark haired blue eyed lioness who had so effectively saved herself, her servants, and her Mama from dastardly footpads. Going by approximate colouring, Miss Dupain-Cheng, or perhaps Miss Couffaine, were the nearest, but Miss Couffaine was barely known to lift her voice above a whisper, and as for Marinette--

Marinette was a mystery to him. 

She stuttered and blushed and most times they met, it took her a full ten minutes to be comfortable enough around him to speak a word, certainly nothing like the fearless lioness he had lost his heart to the night he had ridden into London. Yet there were times when they were alone and laughing that she forgot all her shyness, and spoke with a wit and humour that left him… well, enchanted was probably the word, he thought to himself ruefully. The girl was a mass of contradictions, both graceful and clumsy, outspoken and shy, a sparkling diamond and a demure wallflower. 

When he had confided in Nino about the mystery lady, his friend’s first suggestion was that it could well be Miss Dupain-Cheng, as anyone could see the girl had a head on her shoulders, but when Adrien had pointed out, as he had suggested to the lady in question just this evening, that she was too much the mouse to be the woman for whom he searched, Nino had merely laughed, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “If you say so, old chap.”

Could he have been wrong about her? Could Miss Marinette Dupain-Cheng be the lady his heart sought?

But what if he were to engage her affections only to discover he was wrong?

(Would that be so very great a disaster? his heart whispered.)

So when, at the end of his dance with Miss Lavillant, Mrs. Dupain-Cheng caught his eye to beckon him, her daughter blushing prettily by her side, it was all he could do to exchange bows with Rose and Lady Lavillant before hurrying over. 

And then a young lady swooned all but into his arms. 

Startled, he caught her more with instinct than with grace, lowering her gently to the floor, calling for space around them. Only then did he notice which lady he had caught. 

Signorina Rossi. Of course. 

Lady Lavillant came forward to offer her smelling salts, waving them in front of the girl’s face as Adrien stood to allow room. He glanced over to find Marinette watching the unfolding scene with shrewd suspicion, and he made a point of catching her eye, somehow communicating from all the way across the room that he heeded her well-timed warning, and did not believe the Signorina’s swoon be genuine any more than Miss Dupain-Cheng did. His heart gave a delightful lurch at her answering giggle, hastily concealed behind her fan. 

“Oh, my, did I swoon? It was so kind of the Signore to catch me as he did,” the Signorina’s voice called him back to the situation at hand, and glancing down, he caught the barest glimmer of a hardened frown at his lack of attention, hastily covered by the sweetest of smiles - all the confirmation he needed that she was, in fact, in perfect health. 

“Indeed,” he replied, perhaps a little stiffly. “Perhaps we should prevail upon Lady Lavillant here to assist you to the retiring room until you have recollected your wits,” he added, secretly enjoying her pout when he did not then offer to personally accompany her. 

“I am not sure I can walk…” she began, even as she sat up, and he nodded, all business, speaking before she could interrupt once more. 

“Of course, of course. Allow me to summon the footmen,” he said, and turned to do so at once, and directing them as two leapt to do his bidding. “Hi, there! Please assist her Ladyship in escorting this poor girl to the retiring room. Easy there, yes, like that. Thank you ever so much for your kindness to this young lady, Lady Lavillant. You are an angel of virtue. I hope you feel better, Miss,” he added, deliberately not allowing room for an introduction, nor playing the gallant and walking her out himself. 

He might not be the biggest rake of the  _ ton _ , but he wasn’t to be played as green, either, and he had not liked the calculating look in Signorina Lila’s fox-brown eyes. 

She departed with as much grace as she could muster, and the crowds around them dispersed, gossiping. Some might think him a cad, but it was better than casting himself as the romantic hero of the Italian heiress. 

Several gentlemen and ladies wanted to stop him to congratulate him on his quick thinking in catching the ‘poor girl’, and it was some time before he was finally able to make his way back to Miss Dupain-Cheng’s side. 

Marinette’s side. 

When had he started thinking of her by her given name? He had no right to call her by it, not unless she gave him leave, and so far, the matter had not come up. They were not truly courting, after all. 

And why did the reminder of that thought fill him with dismay?

Her smile was delighted as he approached. “Very prettily done, my Lord.”

“I confess I was shocked by the speed of her recovery,” he replied with a gravity defied by his dancing eyes. Indeed, Lila had all but stormed out of the ballroom when it was clear her only escort would be a pair of footmen, Lady Lavillant clucking kindly at her heels and the Signorina’s aunt and chaperone appearing from the crowds to follow. 

“Indeed, I have never seen anyone recover from their swoon so quick,” Marinette agreed. 

The Marquis turned to Sabine. “I do pray your forgiveness, Ma’am, for not attending you sooner,” he said with a deep bow. 

“You have nothing for which to apologise, good sir. I was merely hoping you might be of assistance to my daughter. She had hoped for some refreshment, but as I was hoping to sit with Lady Mendeleev for some time, and did not wish to leave her unaccompanied. Would it be so very rude of me to trust her into your care for a few minutes, my Lord?” she asked prettily. 

“Mama!” Marinette half-whispered, scandalised. 

Her mother looked at her innocently. “But my feet are truly beginning to ache, dearest, and you did say you were in want of some lemonade. The Marquis will take care of you handsomely, I have no doubt.”

“I shall do my utmost. But first we shall escort you to Lady Mendeliev’s side, for the sake of your aching feet, of course,” he said, offering the ladies an arm each. “I shall be the envy of every gentleman in the room with two such beauties on my arm,” he added, winking at Marinette, and he was delighted when neither lady could stop themselves from laughing. 

After exchanging greetings with Lady Mendeliev, Adrien offered Marinette his arm once more. “If you will do me the honour, Miss Dupain-Cheng,” he said with one of his soft smiles. 

“I would not be offended, my Lord, if you were to call me Marinette. I should like to think we are friends now, after all,” she added hastily. Why did he always want to smile when she spoke?

“You do me great honour. Yes, I should like to call you Marinette. I did not wish to overstep and propose it myself, but I do beg that you would call me Adrien. ‘My Lord’ is so very formal,” he said, and was rewarded by her smile. 

The refreshment room was crowded, and there they saw Nino and Alya cosied together in earnest conversation, but as it was clear they had eyes for no one else, Adrien simply exchanged a knowing grin with his pretty companion and escorted her to the lemonade. 

They drank in comfortable silence, and then, once replete, turned out the far door to the gallery. Music from the ballroom was still clearly discernible, but the crush of bodies was significantly decreased, allowing them the space to have an actual conversation without being so alone as to raise questions. Drawing Marinette out always took time, but he had long since learned it was always worthwhile. 

“Do you think we are being successful in our endeavours?” he asked her as they admired a portrait of an ancestor in full Cavellier regalia, complete with a thick black curly wig. 

“To find your mystery lady? Or to find me a husband?” Marinette asked shyly, glancing up at him out of the corner of her eye. “So far as I can tell, we still have some ground to cover.”

Did she know, he wondered, how pretty was the curve of her neck? Or how plump and inviting her lips were as they curved in a smile? Or how her sparkling eyes peeking up at him from beneath her lashes were driving him to distraction? Did she know how hard he was resisting the urge to take her into his arms, to feel the soft swell of her bosom pressed against his own, to taste the column of her throat? 

How had he never noticed before this night just how intoxicatingly pretty she was?

And yet theirs was a friendship of mutual benefit, and he could not renege on their agreement. 

The vision of the lady in red swam before his eyes once more, but her pull was not as strong as he would have hoped, and for the first time, the pull of the woman at his side was stronger. 

“I am at your service for as long as you wish,” he replied, and in his heart, he begged her to say it would be forever, even as his head chided his heart for being so foolish. 

She was not in love with him, after all. 

\---   
  
Unbeknownst to Adrien, Marinette peeked up at him again from under her eyelashes, wishing she had the right to step a little closer, to take the hand that hung at his side in her own.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

At the end of the second week, Marlena Cesaire’s schemes and plots all came to fruition as the Viscount came to call, not on the daughter of the house, but on her Papa. Exactly what was said between the gentlemen was never disclosed, but a very important permission was sought, and blessing received, and later the Viscount was granted a very rare private audience with Miss Cesaire.

Marinette found out about it when Alya came bursting into the drawing room shortly after the last of Marinette’s gentlemen callers had been shown out. 

“Marinette! Marinette, he proposed!” Alya all but sang it, and then she promptly burst into tears on the threshold. All three Dupain-Chengs were present, and Marinette caught her parents exchanging a concerned glance even as she hurried across the room to embrace her friend.    
  
“Shhh, Alya. There, now. I thought this was what you wanted?” Marinette soothed, and Alya’s head jerked up, smile beaming through her tears.

“But it is! It’s more than I could have hoped or dreamed. You will all have to forgive me, I am beside myself. I did not know any person could experience such happiness!” Alya assured them, and Marinette breathed a sigh of relief. 

“In that case, I am overjoyed for you,” she said sincerely, drawing Alya to the sofa so they could both sit. “Tell me everything!” 

“He says he is in love with me, that he has never known a companionship such as ours. I truly think we were made for each other. I probably sound like a dramatic damsel or a blabbering fool, but I cannot contain myself,” Alya said laughing, even as she produced a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. 

“I suppose I had best become used to calling you a Viscountess,” Marinette teased, and Alya grinned.

“It does sound foolish, does it not? But it is the man I am excited to wed, not the Viscount,” she added firmly, and Marinette squeezed her hand. 

“And that is exactly as it should be,” Marinette said, trying not to think about another man who happened to possess another title that all the world seemed to be after. 

  
  


\---

  
  


Adrien was descending the stairs to the entry hall of Ipswich house, intent on going out, when one of the footmen approached him with a slight bow. 

“His Grace desires to speak with you.”

Adrien raised his eyebrows in surprise, but nodded to the footman and turned away from the front door. 

Ipswich house was an enormous residence for two gentlemen. Adrien could well have chosen to maintain bachelor lodgings of his own, but his father had always preferred he stay in the family property. The Duke’s own comings and goings were so completely separate from Adrien’s that even when they were in residence at the same time, they did not coincide unless there was reason. 

Adrien tried not to sigh as he detoured to his father’s office. He had been about to meet up with Nino, and probably Miss Cesaire and Marinette, for a promenade at the park, and if his friend’s jitters yesterday were anything to go by, Adrien suspected there would be congratulations in order today. This interruption was entirely unwelcome. Adrien did not associate a summons to his father’s office with anything pleasant. 

Still, he straightened his shoulders and knocked. There was no purpose in putting off the distasteful. 

“Come in,” the Duke intoned. 

Adrien entered the room, standing before his father’s desk. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Gabriel glanced up from his papers. “Ah, yes. Adrien. I have been informed that an old acquaintance of mine, Her Royal Highness Tomoe Tsurugi and her daughter, the Princesse Kagami, will be arriving in London this week. They will be attending Lady Damocles’ ball on Friday, and I have secured an introduction for you.”

Adrien blinked. “For me, sir?”

Gabriel did not so much as blink. “As you will be courting the Princesse, Adrien, yes, for you.”

It was all he could do not to splutter. “I-- Sir, what of our agreement?”

The Duke barely raised an eyebrow. “Am I to understand you have formed an attachment and secured a lady’s hand?”

Adrien blushed. “I have not-- that is to say, I do have a lady in mind, sir, but we have yet to--”

“If no understanding has been reached between you, you are free to explore other avenues. Royalty does not happen by every day, Adrien. You are to court the Princesse,” Gabriel said dismissively. 

“Sir, our agreement was I had until the end of the season to choose for myself,” Adrien ground out. 

Gabriel remained expressionless. “Timelines change. And I see no reason why your having the freedom to choose should not preclude the Princesse. Her grandfather was a king. Royal blood flows through her veins. That alone makes her an infinitely superior choice to any other chit who sets her cap at you. There is really nothing further to be said on the matter. That is all, Adrien.”

The Duke busied himself with his papers once more, and Adrien knew he was dismissed. He stood seething, then turned and marched out of the room. It was all he could do not to slam the door. 

Of course his father would never truly allow him to make his own choices in the matter of matrimony. The Duke had always had an iron will, and had never concerned himself with Adrien’s thoughts or feelings on any decision. Every single detail of Adrien’s life had been scrupulously dictated by his father, and even entering his majority had not released him overmuch from his father’s decrees. Gabriel simply wasn’t capable of allowing his son freedom to choose for himself. 

He could fight it, of course. He could insist. Had he found the mysterious Ladybug, he very well might have. She would be worth risking his father’s ire, he knew.    
  
But if he had discovered her already, he would have courted her. 

His father was right. He had not made any promises. His heart had been taken by the mysterious lady, but his hand was still free to give to any he chose. And why not the Princesse? It was an advantageous match. And there were no other ladies on his immediate horizon.

A vision of Marinette rose up before his eyes. 

Well, none who had any expectations of him, then. Marinette was not looking in his direction for a husband. 

(Why did that thought make his heart ache?)

He arrived at the park only moments later than he would have without the detour to his father’s office. The interview had been brief, after all, and where he would have planned to stroll earlier, his thoughts were in such turmoil that his pace had become quite sprightly in an expression of energy. 

One look at Nino’s face, however, was enough to put thoughts of his own situation aside. 

“Well?” he demanded, in lieu of a greeting. He already knew the answer from the beaming smile on Nino’s face, but his friend deserved the opportunity to speak his news for himself. 

“She said yes!” Nino replied, grinning broadly, looking dazed and overwhelmed. 

Adrien clapped him on the back. “Congratulations, my friend. I cannot express how happy I am for you. She is a rare jewel, and you will be well suited to one another.”

“It was the most terrifying moment of my life,” Nino confessed.

Adrien grinned. “If that’s the worst you ever have to face, I do not think you to be in such bad shape.”

Nino snorted. “Easy to say as someone who has not yet asked such a question to the love of his life - or her Papa, who, I might add, did not make it easy, old chap.”

“I rather think it’s the job of the father to make the gentlemen calling on his daughter sweat,” Adrien observed, and then looked around. “I say, here comes your betrothed now,” he added, as Alya and Marinette arrived, their respective Mamas in tow. 

Congratulations were exchanged, and it wasn’t until Miss Cesaire suggested they promenade that Adrien realised he would once again be expected to walk with Marinette. It might be his last chance to speak to her in relative privacy, and he would be a cad if he did not explain his father’s change of heart. It was time to put their arrangement to an end.

He did not expect his heart to lurch so at the thought, nor did he expect his arm to burn when she delicately placed her gloved hand at his elbow when he so offered. 

To make matters worse, for the first time in their acquaintance, she was so excited by Alya’s good news that her shyness was not at all in evidence. It usually took some coaxing for her to overcome her blushes and stutters, and he was well used to carrying their conversations until she grew comfortable, but today she burst into chatter the moment she took his arm.

It was, in a word, adorable. 

“Isn’t it wonderful that the Viscount and Alya are engaged? I am so very pleased for them! I don’t believe I have ever met a couple so well suited to one another, and it is so very comforting to me to have my dearest friend settled in such a happy situation. A good match, of course, is always preferable, and a good man ideal, but I don’t believe even Alya dared hope she would achieve such a suitable love match. She will make him an excellent Viscountess, and he will be a doting husband, do you not agree?”

Her eyes were dancing as she spoke, her mobile face alight with joy, and she was all but skipping at his side. She used her whole person to express herself, and the thought occurred to him that so much energy seemed incongruous in a person of such small stature. 

“Indeed,” he managed. 

If she noticed his taciturn response, she did not say anything, simply chattering on. “And Alya’s family are all pleased, too. Even her Papa, though her Mama said it was unnecessary for him to make the Viscount sweat so. They are to be wed at the end of next month, and Alya’s Mama is already in a spin about preparations. Poor Alya won’t have a moment’s peace, but as she is rarely still when she is excited, I doubt it will be a burden to her.”

A gentle breeze came up, blowing a strand of her hair across her cheek, and his fingers itched to reach out and tuck back behind her ear, to feel for himself if her glossy locks were as soft as he supposed. 

And in that moment, he knew he must be separated from her, or he would fall irrevocably. As his father had decreed that he court the Princesse when she arrived in town, falling for Marinette would only doom him to heartbreak. Especially when, as far as Marinette was aware, he was still in love with his mystery lady.

Which he was, still. But every hour he spent in the company of Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the image of the lady in red faded. No, that was not accurate. The image of her was still clear. Rather, where the lady in red had been the only object of his affection, he was now finding that the shy mouse helping him find his love (and how ridiculous was it to still label her a mouse when she pranced at his side and chattered vivaciously?) had somehow become equal to his mystery lady in his affections? For he realised as they walked that it wasn’t that the other lady had become less to him, it was simply that Marinette, somehow, was becoming more. 

And he couldn’t allow it to happen. 

“Miss Dupain-Cheng,” he managed to interject when she paused for breath.

“Adrien,” she returned with a conspiratorial smile that made him want to taste the curve of her lips.

“I have need to speak to you on… on a matter,” he began.   
  
He felt her breath hitch, glanced down to see her cheeks pinken, but she simply said, “Yes?”

He took a deep breath, searching for words. “I need to put an end to our arrangement,” he blurted out with no finesse whatsoever. 

Beside him, all her animation simply drained away. “Oh?”

“My father has made his choice for who I am to court. A royal princesse from the Continent, if she will have me. Father certainly believes that a match can be made. And a match so advantageous cannot be overlooked,” he explained. It was all very rational, very logical - and he felt like a cad. 

“I see,” she said quietly. 

“It would be remiss of me not to thank you,” he spoke to cover the chasm of silence that had somehow opened between them. “Your company has made this season memorable for me, and I want you to know how deeply I have valued your friendship. I hope - I hope that when we do chance to meet in the future, that you, too, will remember our friendship with fondness.”

“Of course.”

But she wasn’t looking at him, and her cheeks, which had been flushed so prettily a few minutes ago, were white, and her mouth curved down at the corners, all trace of her delight gone. 

“Miss Dupain-Cheng, are you well?” he asked with concern, pausing in their stroll and looking around to her Mama, who came hurrying forward.

“What’s the matter dearest? Are you ill? We should get you home at once. If you will excuse us, my Lord,” her mother curtseyed, distracted, and, placing an arm around her daughter, led her to the nearest entrance to the park, thankfully not a distant walk to their home. 

Adrien watched in dismay, somehow aware that her distress was his doing, but not seeing clearly how or in what way. He ached to follow, to ascertain that she was well, but somehow the way her eyes had gone distant and glassy made him hesitate a moment too long, and then her mother had swept her away. 

It was for the best, he told himself. They could not have continued their friendship as it was if he was to court another. It would be unfair to Marinette, making her a laughing stock, as well as jeopardizing his own chances with the Princesse. At least this way, she could claim to have been courted by a future duke. He would even tell any brave enough to ask that she had been the one to jilt him, not the other way around. Better that than to paint her as the one overlooked for another. 

  
  


\---

  
  


It wasn’t until Lady Damocles’ ball that he began to understand how great his error had been. 

The Princesse Kagami arrived fashionably late with her royal mother as chaperone, and Adrien was one of the first to be introduced to her. 

She was beautiful. 

Dark hair that shone, intelligent brown eyes that missed no details, and creamy skin. 

If it were not for the fact that he was convinced his mystery woman had blue eyes and not brown, he might well have believed that he had found her here. The Princesse, after all, was no shrinking violet. She was confident and well spoken, and clearly she knew what she wanted. 

And, Adrien thought wryly, what she wanted was him. 

She graciously allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor, where she moved with rare grace, and her conversation, though kept general, betrayed her to be unusually perceptive. 

They danced together twice, the maximum amount considered to be proper without crossing the line into scandalous, and as he returned her to her mother, he found himself thinking that it really had been the perfect first meeting. 

There was no good reason why he should not fall in love with her. 

No sooner had the thought occurred to him as he stood exchanging pleasantries with her mother, than a movement out of the corner of his eye caused him to glance back toward the dance floor, and he saw her. 

Marinette. 

Miss Dupain-Cheng, his head reminded his heart. He had no right to even think of her by her given name. Not any more. 

She was dancing with Mr. Couffaine, one of the few gentlemen of the  _ ton _ he knew she had not rejected outright as a suitor. Even as Adrien watched, she turned her head to her dance partner and made one of her smart comments - always witty, with nary a hint of cruelty - he couldn’t hear it of course, but he knew by now the tone of her voice, the light in her eyes. Mr. Couffaine smiled indulgently down at her, and something in Adrien’s gut twisted. 

“Lord Orwell?” the Princesse’s voice snapped him back to the conversation. Yet no matter how hard he tried to block out the image of Miss Dupain-Cheng laughing with Mr. Couffaine or how hard he tried to concentrate on charming a beautiful and intelligent Princesse who was very open to his overtures, the rest of the evening tasted a little sour somehow. 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

By the end of the following week, the whole _ton_ knew that the Marquis of Orvillle, son and heir to the Duke of Ipswich, was actively courting the Princesse Kagami. Miss Dupain-Cheng, with whom his name had previously been associated by the gossips, was seen more and more often in the company of Mr. Luka Couffaine, son and heir to Barron Couffaine. The more observant, or more catty, asked each other who had jilted whom, as the Marquis and Miss Dupain-Cheng went so suddenly from being seen frequently together to never in the same room if it could be helped. And the most observant of all noted that, in spite of whatever quarrel may have occurred, when they did have occasion to be at the same gathering, one could often be observed watching the other from across the room with what could only be described as distant longing. 

Adrien courted the Princesse with fastidious attention to detail. He sent her flowers at least once a week, rode beside her open carriage when she took air in the park in the early afternoons, and was among the first to secure her hand to two dances at every ball. He found her endearing, a curious mix of innocent and world weary, both confident and headstrong, and completely under the rather strict confines of her mother’s domination. 

Strict parents were one of the things they bonded over. 

And she observed more than he would have desired. 

“You’re staring at her again,” she remarked as coolly as if she had been commenting on the weather as they danced a minuet - the Princesse was not permitted to dance a waltz as her mother felt it too scandalous for an unwed woman of rank to dance so close with a man. 

Adrien immediately snapped his attention back to his dance partner, trying to keep the sheepish smile off his face. “At who?” he asked her in a feeble attempt to cover his unconscionable rudeness. 

The Princesse simply stared at him, her expression flat. “Who is she?” 

Adrien shook his head. “She’s--” no one, he wanted his mouth to say, but could not bring himself to do so.

Because in spite of the mysterious Ladybug, and in spite of the beautiful Princesse with whom he now spent the majority of his waking hours, it was Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s smile that he thought of when he was trying to sleep, and her stricken expression from the day he had ended their arrangement that haunted his dreams.

  
  


\---

  
  


Marinette found she was faring little better. 

Alya was wrapped up heart and soul in wedding preparations, in preparing her trousseau, and in the Viscount Lahiffe, and Marinette was still so very happy for her - but it was hard to face the joy of her dearest friend when she herself was heartbroken. She chided herself for it, of course. Adrien had never once said or done anything to imply he ever thought of her as more than a friend. She had known from the start that his heart was taken by another, and that he was never going to be hers. 

But as their friendship had progressed, her foolish heart had allowed itself to hope. He had been so attentive, so endlessly kind, that the spark of love that started with the sincerity of his apology that first night at the ball had only bloomed, watered by his flattering attention, basking in the radiance of his smile.

And even now, as her dignity dictated that she encourage other suitors, she found no other man truly compared. 

Mr. Couffaine was perhaps the closest. He was charming in a far more subtle way than Adrien, and if anything he was even more attentive. She often felt he knew what she was feeling completely, so she rarely had to explain or express herself. He cared deeply for his mother and sister, and that told her he would be a faithful and accommodating husband. 

But it was Adrien’s green eyes, not Luka’s blue, that her mind strayed back to again and again. And she rather thought Luka, with his endless understanding, knew it, though he never said a word. 

It bothered her, too, that the Princesse wasn’t the only woman flocking around Adrien, though he paid scant attention to the rest. He danced with Chloe from time to time - he had explained to Marinette that they had been friends as children, before he had departed for Eton, and though Marinette suspected Chloe still held out hope of an alliance, she was satisfied that Adrien thought of her entirely as a sister and nothing more. 

Then, of course, there was Lila. 

The Signorina had never given up on her quest for his Lordship’s attention, and had forced an introduction at a soiree the week after her magnificent swoon. Marinette would have admired her for her tenacity in pursuing the Marquis had she not disliked the woman so. The only way for Adrien to rid himself of her attentions would have been to either snub her publicly, which was an unkindness of which he was simply incapable, or to announce his own engagement. 

The thought of which made Marinette want to bury her face in her pillow and weep. 

She expected the glad tidings every day, of course. If Adrien was truly settled on marrying the Princesse, she knew him well enough to know he would not dally. 

But Marinette was too aware of the gossip of the _ton_ that had linked her name with his for a time, and her reputation simply could not afford for her to allow herself to be seen pining for him, even if that is exactly what she did every time she saw him across the ball room. She remembered the light in his eyes as he laughed, the way he would lean down to make a particularly witty observation in her ear so that the joke belonged to them and them alone. She could not prevent her eyes from following his form as he danced with his Princesse, and could not stop her heart from wishing that he was instead dancing with her, laughing with her, gazing at her with that warm, soft expression of his. 

\---

Alya’s wedding to the Viscount was a small, private affair at the church, to be followed by a larger celebration at the Cesaire’s house in the square involving a hundred or so of their nearest friends and acquaintances. Marinette and her parents were invited to the ceremony, of course, though Marinette had graciously stepped aside to allow Alya’s twin sisters to be her bridesmaids. Her family, Alya’s and the Viscount’s mother and younger brother were the only ones in attendance - and, of course, the Viscount’s best friend, the Marquis of Orwell, who stood up as Lord Lahiffe’s best man. 

It was the first time she had been within a dozen feet of the Marquis since their arrangement had ended, and when he had accompanied Lord Nino to his place at the front of the church and walked directly past her place in the third row, a jolt had passed through her. His stride had hitched just then, too, the barest pause, but it left her wondering if he had felt it, too. 

Then the ceremony began, and somewhere throughout the exchange of vows, the Marquis, who had half-turned to observe the exchange, allowed his eyes to wander from the bride and groom, and his gaze locked on hers. Something hot ran between them as their friends recited oaths to love and honour one another in sickness and in health, and it was only when applause broke out as the new union was sealed with a kiss that the Marquis looked away. 

Marinette was left feeling breathless, her blood singing, her heart pounding. 

Adrien had been looking at her throughout the vows as if he were the one making promises to her. 

But he could not possibly mean them. Not if the rumours were true and he was preparing to enter into an engagement with royalty. 

\---

He had been so proud of himself, avoiding her at public gatherings, keeping his eyes focused on Kagami, whom he genuinely liked more each day. He didn’t love the Princesse, not when his heart was so tangled already between Marinette and his mystery lady - and if he was being completely honest, Marinette had all but won that battle. He was not in the mood for honesty these days, however. He felt he had little or no choice in the path laid out before him. 

He could not allow himself to admit to loving Marinette when the only choice before him was to marry Kagami. 

But when Marinette’s eyes had met his in the church, every reason, every excuse as to why he could not love her fell away, leaving him stripped bare in a way he had never experienced before. Desire for her hummed in his veins, and as the priest led the vows, he could not stop his heart from repeating them, pledging himself to her once and for all.   
  
And, God help him, he could not help but feel she had pledged herself, too. The air between them had been so thick, her eyes so expressive, it was as if he could hear her thoughts from across the room. 

So now he stood to the side of the Cesaire’s drawing room, watching her through the crowd. 

She was beautiful as ever, her dark hair styled elegantly, a strand curling down the creamy length of her neck and sitting delicately at her decolletage. Her dress was pale pink with cunning embroidery in a deeper red as a contrast. She had owned to him once that she often re-made her own frocks after wearing them to an event as a way of practicing economy - it would be scandalous to wear the exact same dress twice, after all - and also because she enjoyed working with her needle, so he wondered if this was one she had re-made. 

Something about her tugged at his memory, a whisper so fleeting he almost didn’t catch it, but then he looked again, and finally he saw it. 

She wore rubies at her ears.   
  
Very distinctive rubies, a pair in a setting that was simple and subtle, but that he had seen once before. The event was seared into his memory, after all.

They were the rubies worn by the woman in red from that night on the road, by the mysterious Ladybug. 

By the woman he had first lost his heart to. 

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was his Ladybug. It was the only explanation. 

And that meant he had never had to choose between the two women he was in love with. They were one and the same. 

Alya’s Papa called the revellers to attention and gave a short speech of welcome, then music began and the bridal couple stepped out to waltz. As soon as Mr. Cesaire led his wife out onto the floor, signalling that other couples might now also dance, Adrien moved with a purpose he had never felt before, his steps sprightly, straight for Marinette.

Skirting a crowded room not originally designed for dancing was difficult, however, and before he could reach his quarry, Mr. Couffaine was bowling before Marinette, offering her his hand, and leading her out. 

Adrien felt it like a punch to his gut. 

His head told his heart he had no right to feel this way. No explanations had been made, no understandings reached.   
  


No matter what had passed between them in the church earlier, she was not his. 

Lies, his heart responded. She was his as irrevocably as he was hers. He had vowed as much in the church, and he had been sure she had made a similar promise. 

But nothing had been said, so all he could do was watch as the woman of his dreams danced with another man. His eyes followed the couple around the dance floor, burning at the sight of her hand in another man’s. 

Bile rose in his throat. He had heard people speak of their vision turning red when in a rage, but in all his life nothing had offended him as deeply as the sight before him, and some distant part of his brain noted the adage to be true. 

He had to get out of there, away from the eyes of the _ton_. But he also found he could not leave; he needed to be wherever she was. It was as simple and as complex as that. 

The hall, then. The hall would most likely be empty. 

Most of the revellers were crowded into the drawing room; the doors between it and the music room had been thrown open to create a larger space, and on the other side, the door to the dining room was also open to allow guests to flow freely between the main room and refreshments. No one would be in the hall unless they were arriving or leaving, which, at stage, meant it was most likely to be empty. Even the servants would be occupied with refreshments.

Wrenching himself away, he found the hall to be blessedly empty, as he had hoped. 

He paced. 

He was too full of fury and passion and madness to do otherwise, a caged panther. 

It was just a dance, he reminded himself. Any pair could dance, it didn’t mean anything. It was unseemly, in fact, for any couple to dance only with each other, to the exclusion of all else, married or nay. Even throughout their arrangement, Marinette had frequently danced with other gentlemen, and he with other ladies. 

So why had it felt like so much more than that?

He had shut the door to the drawing room behind him when he had departed, but though it dulled the murmur of conversation and the lilt of the quartet playing for the dancers, it by no means muted them. He paused in his pacing as the music changed, going from romantic waltz to joyous country dance. 

Rules of society dictated that it was scandalous to dance more than twice with any given partner, especially if the couple in question were eligible and unwed. While those two dances could happen at different points throughout the evening, it was more common for a couple to dance those two dances in succession, especially if they were at all intent on making a match of things. 

Which meant that Marinette and Luka were now moving from holding each other in their arms to joyously skipping around each other, probably laughing and chatting and flirting. He could all but see the light in her eyes, the grace in her movements. 

He had danced with her often enough, after all, to know how delightful she could be. 

It was hopeless. 

Clearly, whatever had passed between them in the church had been a fantasy, a foolish whim on his part that she had not felt or understood. Luka Couffaine would make her a respectable match, even if it wouldn’t be the grand triumph such as Alya had achieved. 

Such as Adrien would be.

Not that she had ever given him so much as a hint that she was interested in his title. A respectable match, preferably a love match, had been her aim. 

She and Luka would not be the wealthiest pair in the _ton_ , but they could well be very happy. 

The thought made Adrien feel ill. 

He moved to an ornate straight-backed chair, the kind often placed in entry halls but rarely actually used for more than decoration, and slumped into it, all his pent up energy spent. 

He should go. He would go. He would slip back into the drawing room after the country dance was concluded and make his excuses, wish Nino all the congratulations in the world for acquiring a bride so perfectly suited to him, and depart. With any luck he would not have to set his eyes on either Marinette or Luka. 

His musings had only progressed so far when the door to the drawing room opened and then closed again. Adrien almost didn’t look up, didn’t want to see who was disturbing his solitude or for what purpose, but when he did, he shot out of his chair as though he had been burned. 

“Marin-- Miss Dupain-Cheng!” he cried, all but leaping out of his seat. How had the object of his thoughts and turmoils materialised in front of him?

She had her foot raised, prepared to ascend the staircase, and had one hand on the bannister. No doubt the ladies’ retiring room was situated upstairs. She whirled around. 

Her face was pale, he noted with concern, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears. She gasped. “A-- Lord Orwell!” 

His heart broke at the sight of her distress, and he crossed to her, all thoughts of his own mental anguish of the past minutes dissipating in the face of her obvious misery. “Are you unwell?” he asked gently, half raising his hand to reach for hers, then curling his fingers and dropping it to his side. 

Her lips, which had been pressed together with a noticeable droop to the corners, now parted in surprise as she turned face him fully. She stood on the lowest step, bringing her almost to eye level with him. 

But not quite.

He could not say why he found it endearing that she was so very much smaller that he, only that he did. 

She was staring at him in what could only be described as wonder. 

“I thought--” she began, hesitated, licked her lips as if deciding whether to continue, turned her gaze to something over his shoulder. “I thought you had gone.”

“I thought you were dancing with Mr. Couffaine,” he replied. 

Something flared in her eyes, hot and indignant. This was not the mouse he had known over the past weeks; this was the lioness in the red dress who had so artfully dealt to the footpads, with only her wits, a cushion, and his well timed distractions as her weapons. 

“I am free to dance with whomever I so choose,” she replied haughtily. “As are you. How does the Princesse Kagami, my Lord? I am told to expect news of your engagement any day now.”

He did not wish to be reminded of the Princesse in this moment, not when he had finally discovered that Marinette was also his mysterious Lady. He felt his jaw clench, felt his earlier jealousy - for though he was loath to admit it, he was not so dishonest as to refuse to name it - rise like a bitter metallic taste on his tongue, and his earlier fury rekindled into cold ice.

“She is in excellent health, I thank you,” he replied with a stiff formality even his father might have envied. “How does Mr. Couffaine? Am I to be extending similar congratulations to you at any time?”

Her eyes blazed in blue fury. “You mock me, Sir, but I would have you know that Mr. Couffaine has been nothing but attentive, and kind, and good to me. He will make an excellent husband.”

“...Even though he’s poor,” Adrien scoffed, stung by her willingness to defend his rival. 

“What do I care for that? I would be just as happy to settle in his country seat. With my dowry we shall not be completely ruined, after all. Not all of us need monogrammed carriages and mountains of Camembert in order to survive,” she added this last with a sneer. 

He felt his cheeks pink at her words. “Forgive me for having the means at my disposal to ensure that my future bride never wants for anything her heart desires,” he snapped back. 

“I wish you joy of her. I am sure you will both be very happy.” She spat every word as though it were a knife. 

“I am sure Mr. Couffaine will find you to be the meekest and most excellent of wives,” he replied, his words slashing at both their hearts. “If, in fact, you can convince him to press his suit.”

She stared at him coldly. “What do you mean by that?”

“Only that I have not heard an announcement of your upcoming engagement. And while I have no doubt of Mr. Couffaine’s affection for you, it does not run as deep as the affection and duty he holds for his mother and sister. And his father is well known to be many thousands of pounds in debt, all of which will be Luka’s responsibility to pay off one day. Mr. Couffaine may very well speak sentimentally, but when the time comes to take action, he will act rationally. He would be foolish to pursue any bride with a penny less than ten thousand pounds,” replied Adrien, hating himself for pressing the point, for needing to make her feel the same pain he felt.

She scoffed and turned her face away. “You know little of him if you think he would chase after a fortune just for the sake of it.”

Adrien shifted forward, leaning into her space so that she had no choice but to look back at him. “I never said he would do it for the sake of it. I have no doubts that if all else were even and he were free to choose as he desired, income would not be a factor in his choice. But I could very well see him sacrificing his own happiness in order to ensure a better future for his mother and sister. You would see this if you took a single minute to observe him with your head and not your heart.” He was so close to her, all he could feel were the puffs of her breath against his lips. All he could see was the blue of her eyes. And they were filled with an anguish that tore at his heart, a fury that made his blood surge. 

“And what of your heart, your Lordship?” she demanded, eyes blazing, cheeks an alarmingly attractive pink with her fury. “Does it sing for the Princesse, or merely what is in her pockets? You speak as though you are wise to the ways of the world, yet you allow your every choice to be dictated to you by a father you never see. Are you courting the Princesse, Sir, or is your father? Are you anything more than his puppet? And what of the Princesse? Does she know she is only being courted by you because your father told you to do so?”

He growled. “Do not insult me thus, Madam,” he warned, but she did not heed him.

“I shall do so, and more. I have seen you up close, Sir, and I find you vain, self-centered, and pretentious. You are all talk and no action; overcompensating, attention-seeking, and dramatic. You claim to be your own man, yet in spite of being at legal majority, you allow your father to run your life as though you were still in leading strings.” Her rather marvelous breast was heaving, and although he towered over her, she did retreat so much as an inch. 

He had never been so furious in his life. It flooded his veins, set his vision on fire. “If you were a man, I would call you out for less. You would dare insult me? You, a nervous, stubborn, arrogant, jealous--”

“Jealous?!” she expostulated, outraged, but he kept going.

“--chit who doesn’t know her head from her heart, and refuses to listen to sound sense? You’re a panicked little mouse who doesn’t even know what she wants, let alone have the courage to pursue it. The Princesse may not be the love of my life, Miss Dupain-Cheng, but at least she knows her own mind and has the tenacity to abide by her choices. You would swither until the choices are made for you.”

“You think you know me, Sir, but you do not,” she glared at him fiercely, her voice frigid. 

He allowed his disappointment to shine through his fury, knowing it would only add to the insult. “Oh, but I do, Marinette, as no man ever has or will.” 

Then his mouth descended on hers. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a gift for the amazing Maddy aka [fictionalinfinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalinfinity/pseuds/fictionalinfinity) to celebrate her reaching Level 50 on the [Miraculous Fanworks Discord Server](https://discord.gg/mlfanworks). Maddy, it has been an honour and a pleasure to write this fic for you. Thank you for being such a wonderful member of our community, someone I truly admire. And thank you for fangirling about Bridgerton with me! I hope this fic lives up to your hopes. 
> 
> This fic will be updating weekly, and is already written. It will be 8 chapters in length. I could not have completed it in the time I did without the support of all the dear people on the Miraculous Fanworks Discord Server (seriously, you should go click that link and join us!) and particular thanks must go to Cass for being my cheerleader, supporter, and beta. I could not have done this without you, lovely.


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